Broken symphony, p.2
Broken Symphony, page 2
“I’m a man who can use a wrench to fix a sink drain.”
“You don’t tell me who you are, I might wrench you to death, boyo, how’s that for using a wrench.”
“You didn’t even bring a wrench, I bet, you idiot, and I’m not giving you mine,” I said.
“Idiot. This man, he called me an idiot.”
“Who forgets their wrench and threatens to wrench someone to death? An idiot, that’s who. A spade is a spade.”
“I gotta be honest.” Doyle’s hands were shoved into his coat pockets and he was smiling. “I gotta be honest, I like this muppet, with his funny wrench talk. Who are you, exactly?”
“I own the place,” I said.
“What place? You own this place? I thought it was the good-looking attorney who owned it, what’s her name, Summers, Ronnie Summers. Oh. Oh wait, that means. That means, you’re Mackenzie, that’s how I know you. I heard about you. A good Irish name.”
“The tall tales don’t do me justice,” I said.
“Yeah, the tall tales, like Paul Revere, that’s who you are.”
“Paul Bunyan,” I corrected. For a tough guy, Doyle ran his mouth a lot.
“Whatever. Hey, listen, this is your place? Why don’t you take off and give me ten with the floozies. Give me ten minutes and I’ll let you get back to fixing sinks, huh, Mackenzie with the wrench, how about it.”
“Doyle, I got bad news,” I said.
Doyle was grinning at me. A kind of eager madness in his face. “Tell me the bad news, Mackenzie. I can’t wait to hear this bad news.”
“I’m putting some puzzle pieces together. You think Billy and Justine and Misha and Lemonade work for you. You moved to Roanoke and bought them up. But they don’t. Not anymore.”
“Oh they don’t work for me anymore?”
“Find another place. Not this place. This is my place,” I said.
“Here I heard it was your sugar mama’s place.”
“It’s a family project. A real hoot, dealing with Billy.”
“Mackenzie. Take off. Come back later. Okay? Take off.”
“How’s it work, you bring the women clients and you give them half?” I said.
Doyle rocked back on his heels. “You give them half. Hey, Boston, you hear that? He said, you give them half.”
“I heard,” said the guy behind him. Boston. Not original.
“That’s grand, Mackenzie, that’s good for you. Most tools say I bring the whores clients and the girls give me half their take. But you understand the way it works. It’s the other way. I give them part of my take. Not the other way. Good for you, Mackenzie.”
“Thanks!”
“Now beat it.”
“Three million,” I said.
“What?”
“I’ll sell this building to you right now for three million. But these women don’t come with the deal.”
“Three million? I was thinking twenty bucks, guy. How’d you feel about that lowball, twenty bucks.”
“I hate it,” I said.
“Boston, it’s time for Mackenzie to leave. Don’t you think it’s time for Mackenzie to leave?”
“Sure it’s time,” said Boston, the muscle, guy with the jaw.
“Doyle. You send Boston over here, it’s gonna be bad for both of you,” I said.
“Oh yeah, how’s that?” said Doyle. “Bad for both of us, how’s that gonna work?”
“I gotta smack him around.”
“You do?”
“After I smack Boston around, you won’t respect him. You’ll feel like you lost your muscle. Bad for your peace of mind. Bad for his job security. Better if you two leave.”
“Boston, what’d I say? It’s time for Mackenzie to get pucked, innit,” said Doyle.
Big scary Boston stepped around his boss and came my way.
“Don’t do it, Boston,” I said.
But he did.
I looked backward, contemplating a retreat. It was a ruse. I met him halfway, mid-stride. A big guy, as big as me, I got under his center of gravity, like football players try to do, my hand up under his chin. I pushed him back. It was not gentle, gripping his neck, forcing his head back, and he had no recourse but to flail against my arm. I walked him backward into Doyle, where he fell. He landed at the top of the stairway landing, and he rolled down, thump thump thump.
Halfway he crunched and made a groan. His shoulder came out of its socket.
Simple screamed.
“You’re right, I do respect the gom less,” said Doyle.
“Your turn to go,” I said.
“I’m glad you said that, Mackenzie, tells me what kinda man you are.” Doyle’s hand jerked from his pocket and he held an Italian stiletto blade. “A real man, Mackenzie. Once you recover, you come work for me.”
He stabbed at my abdomen. I twisted and blocked his arm away. Not a lot of room to work in the little hallway.
I grabbed his hand to force it backward.
Doyle was stronger and quicker than I thought. He let go of the knife. With the free hand, he grabbed my finger, my pinky. He twisted and it broke, a hateful crunch.
Hey-o!
I picked the smaller man up by his lapels and threw him toward the stairwell.
He snagged my North Face jacket and pulled. A lesser detective would’ve gasped. We both tumbled. I landed on him, we slid down, thump thump thump, my pinky finger protesting. His skull banged on the steps. We crashed into Boston, who moaned, and our absurd bulk collided hard with the door.
Not ideal for my back.
Doyle was laughing.
I stood. He stood, holding his head, and he was standing on Boston. “Alright, Mackenzie, we’re both learning something here. Tough as nails. Tough as a wrench, I mean.”
“My arm,” said Boston.
“Shut up.” Doyle did a double-stomp on his hired muscle. “You shouldn’t still be laying there, you gobshite. What kind of man keeps laying there. Which arm is it, is it this arm?” Doyle ground his shoe into the man’s shoulder. “Don’t fight it, Boston, don’t fight me, the pain’s good. You fecked it up, didn’t you, Boston, now learn the lesson. Mackenzie, you got some place we can talk? I wanna talk before we do something we can’t take back, something bad for business.”
“We can talk in my office. But when we arrive, I’ll hit you with a chair.”
“No, no, no, we gotta settle this. Me and you, Mackenzie, settle it proper. I got a feeling we need to set some things straight, man to man, no knives, no chairs, just talking. Can we go to your office?”
At the top of the stairs, Lynsey watched us. She covered her mouth with her hand. “Mr. Mackenzie, are you hurt? I should call the police, huh?”
“No you shouldn’t call the police, pretty little skank, we’re businessmen. This is how business gets done, where I come from,” said Doyle. “Hey, tell me this first. Lemonade, did she return?”
“Lemonade? No she ain’t back.”
“I’m taking Doyle out of here,” I said. “If Boston is still here in one minute, yes, call the police.”
I opened the door. Careful not to hit Boston with it. Doyle and I stepped outside into the cold spring.
4
I knew enough about Doyle to respect him. Manny and Marcus, they talked about him like he was a problem. A wild, unsolvable problem. So even though I considered shining my shoes with his face, I didn’t.
There was an insanity about him. He liked pain. To hurt and be hurt, both were good.
At my office I said, “Are you on coke?”
“No but I get asked that a lot. I don’t touch the shite. I got a personality like I’m on speed. I only sleep three hours and feel grand in the morning.” The accent was strongly Boston, with Irish phrasing mixed in. “I broke your finger, didn’t I, how about that. The great Mackenzie, winner of that fecking tournament in Italy, and I broke his finger.”
Doyle’s head bled in two spots. One, above his ear, leaked into his collar. The other, above his eyebrow, dripped into his eye and the corner of his mouth and he seemed not to notice.
I felt like I was talking to a Halloween mask.
“I’m Irish,” he said. “You picked that up. Irish Catholic, like everyone worth a shite from Boston. I grew up going to this Catholic church in the West End with me mam, I couldn’t sit still, still can’t, and the priest would get mad. Yelled at me. You could hit kids with rulers back then. You know what I would do? To get even? I’d catch rats and I’d release them at mass. One time I cut a rat open and when no one was looking I dropped it into the money box in the back. See, what I wanted to do, I wanted to lamp the priest. Kill him. But I couldn’t. I was ten, and you don’t kill people when you’re a pup. I was ten.”
“Admirable restraint,” I said. “How do you know when to use the pronoun me versus my? Or shit versus shite?”
“I don’t know, one comes naturally. Anyway, I couldn’t kill the priest so I did what I could. Now, here’s the thing. People tell me, don’t touch Mackenzie. That’s what I hear. I looked into it some. You’ve got too many lads. You got the marshals, the sheriff, you got Marcus, you got fans in the Kings, hell, you got fans around the world. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill Marcus either, they said, ‘cause he and Mackenzie are a thing. They’re this thing. Not a gay thing, people don’t know what to call it, but they’re a thing. Don’t mess with them, they’re mates. So you know what I’m doing?”
“Talking too much,” I said. My finger hurt.
“I’m letting rats loose in mass. I’m doing what I can. And I’m not killing you.”
“How great.”
“I’m a killer, Mackenzie. I know killers are supposed to be tall and scary and silent, and I’m not. But trust me on this. Some of the rich wise guys, they hire it out, but not me. I’ll stay up all night and cut your throat and mail your ears to your wife, that kind of thing. I’m a killer.”
“How would you ever sneak up on someone?”
He laughed.
I’m a riot. And my finger hurt.
“Me, I gotta kill Marcus,” he said.
“Nope.”
“Listen, Mackenzie, it’s gonna happen. He’s threatened me, I threatened him, one of us is going down, and I don’t want it to be me. It’s gotta happen. This place, it’s too rich. If you control Roanoke, you control here to Richmond, south to Charlotte, west to forever, it’s too good.”
“Marcus and me, we’re a thing.”
“Yeah, I heard that. Explain it to me like I’m daft,” said Doyle. His spine was straight, leaning forward in a chair like a dog against a leash, twitchy and animated. His plosive syllables were wet with crimson.
“I call it friendship.”
“Your finger’s purple, Mackenzie. It’s swelling and you need ice on it.”
“I’m going to, if you ever shut up,” I said.
“I gotta kill Marcus. I’ll do it, I’ll do it quick, it’s gotta happen, and I don’t want trouble with you. Marcus, he’s a big deal, but somehow, somehow that I don’t fecking understand, you’re a bigger deal. Listen, Mackenzie, you got this wife. A sexy lass and I mean that good. I’ve seen her. Heard about her. Everyone’s seen her and heard about Ron Summers. You got a lad too. And this pretty house, and all of it. You got it all, Mackenzie, and I’m gonna leave the whole thing alone. I’m not touching your wife or your kid or your dog, I saw that dog, I’m not touching any of it. Because me and you, we’re gonna steer clear of each other.”
“Uh huh.”
He was rocking back and forth. As I listened, I wondered how to imitate a Boston Irish accent. All the vowel sounds were forward in the mouth. His Os and As blended.
He said, “And you, you can’t kill me either. You got morals or scruples or something, and you’re not a killer like me. Besides, I got family. I got this big loud nasty family and they’ll come down here if I get waxed, and you don’t want that, Mackenzie, they’re so loud and mean, a pack of horses. I won’t touch your wife, but they will, so don’t bring them down here.”
“You can’t kill Marcus.”
“Can and will,” he said. “Let’s make peace with that.”
“No deal. I like Marcus.”
“He’s the biggest trafficker of cocaine north of Atlanta, and you’re thick as thieves?”
“He does it with class and stoicism, though.”
“Stoicism, that’s what, like when you don’t talk much?” said Doyle.
“It’s the way I love the Nationals and Mr. Darcy loved Elizabeth Bennett.”
“Anyway, feck off with the Nationals, maybe we go to a game at Fenway, but listen. Let’s shelve the Marcus discussion. Set it aside and return later. Move on to greener pastures. I got a deal for you. You’re a private detective, yeah?”
“I am. Consider me the canon.”
“You’re what?” he said.
“The canon.”
“Like a big gun?”
“No. Only one N,” I said.
“Mackenzie, what the shite.”
“I am the standard by which all detectives should be judged.”
“Jesus Christ, lad. Why didn’t you say that? Anyway, I want to hire you,” he said.
“Pass.”
“It’ll put us on good terms. Besides you’re the best, they say. You’re so good you’re famous, they say. Any mystery can be solved.”
“Pass,” I said.
“That lass, Lemonade, she took off. I want her back.”
“Lemonade the former prostitute who lived in Ronnie’s building,” I said. Couldn’t be that many Lemonades.
“Bring her back. I’ll pay you, what, ten grand?”
“Why? She made it rain for you?” I said.
“No. Personal reasons.”
“So you can kill her. Send a message to your other workers, don’t run out on me?”
“No, Mackenzie, that’s not it. I don’t kill women. That’s not true, yeah I do, but I don’t want her found just so I can kill her, Christ, Mackenzie, what a dope you are.”
“You two were an item?” I said.
“No. Hand to God. My reasons are my own. She’s gone and I can’t find her.”
“I’m not working for you, Doyle,” I said.
“Why not? Money is money.”
“My pinky hurts and you’re getting blood on my chair.”
“You broke Boston’s arm. You owe me.”
“I am unmoved,” I said.
Blood had pooled in his eye. Every time he blinked, it caused a minor spatter, but he didn’t blink much, like he couldn’t feel the irritation. “You won’t let us be friendly, will you, Mackenzie.”
“Doubtful.”
“You broke Boston’s arm, so if you don’t work for me, maybe I’ll break your wife’s arm.”
“You mention my wife one more time, I’ll kill you. And then I’ll kill every member of your big loud family who comes here,” I said.
“You mean it. I can tell you mean it, Mackenzie, big scary buck like you. Find Lemonade and we’ll stay on good terms.”
“No,” I said.
“It’ll be war then.”
“Doesn’t have to be. Don’t start a war you’ll lose, Doyle.”
He stood. “I don’t lose wars.”
“Close the door on your way out.”
“We’re gonna be tinkering in each other’s lives a bit, Mackenzie. I gotta say, this didn’t go as well as it should.” He grabbed my bookshelves and stepped away, hauling them over. The bookshelves toppled and crashed. My books, my pictures, my potpourri, all of it spilled across the floor.
I was standing. Gun in hand.
“Don’t mind me, Mackenzie, I’m merely letting off steam. I break things when I get angry.”
The realtor down the hall yelped. She ran to my door. Stephanie was her name, middle-aged, and not successful yet. But she’d started the Atkins diet, she told me, and surely business would pick up soon. She said, “I heard the boom, is everything okay in… Sir! Oh my goodness, your eye! What happened, it fell on you?”
“See you ‘round, Mackenzie,” said Doyle.
“Should I call an ambulance? You need an ambulance,” Stephanie squeaked.
I put my gun down. Stephanie hadn’t noticed.
“No one needs an ambulance, fat cow.” Doyle marched down my stairs. “Not yet anyway.”
The exterior door closed after him.
Stephanie’s face was white.
“Who was that? He’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.” Stephanie held her stomach like she might get sick.
“You look great, Stephanie. Don’t listen to him.”
“I’m down six pounds,” she said.
“Yeah you are.”
“Do you need help cleaning?”
“Even better,” I said, “would be if you had some ice.”
5
That afternoon in my living room I watched the Nationals play a day game while Kix hurled toy action figures from the floor onto the couch. After throwing the entire collection, most of them superheroes, he would climb the cushions, brush them into the floor, and start over. He took the operation seriously, glaring at the cushions like Max Scherzer would.
When Kix missed, he told me, That one is broken. It is the fault of the equipment.
Deputy US Marshal Manny Martinez returned home at five. More importantly, super lawyer Ronnie Summers returned home at the same time. They could be a magazine photo, advertising a show about gorgeous people doing sexy things. 50 Shades of Suburbia.
Ronnie wore flared jeans, all the rage, and a white sleeveless blouse that hugged her midsection snug enough to highlight the tightness of her abs, which was I thought the point. Also her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
She kissed Kix, who scowled, and me, who didn’t.
“Mackenzie. Why did Manny follow me home?”
“You noticed,” I said.
“Halfway here, he called and ordered me to pass the communist in the left lane.”
A bottle of beer hissed in the kitchen when Manny popped the top. “This is America. We drive fast.”
“He wouldn’t…” Ronnie made a cute gasp and she lowered onto the couch next to me. I felt a thrill, my body being so close to her body, a thing I loved dearly. “Your hand.”
